


What The Naked Dutch Painter Actually Does Want

by ElizaStyx



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amsterdam, Crack, Cute, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Dutch Castiel, Hangover, Hugs, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Morning After, Nakedness, Nederlands | Dutch, Painter Castiel, Stupidity, The Hangover Experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4499622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizaStyx/pseuds/ElizaStyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wasn't sure how much he had drunk the night before but given the fact that there was an actual Dutchman with certain artistic skills sitting in his kitchen completely naked, it must have been a lot even by his standards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What The Naked Dutch Painter Actually Does Want

**Author's Note:**

> This is obviously inspired by [the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uvLdOH1ZiRA) that [Maison sung to Misha](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzbYJB8KXgU). If you haven't heard it yet, please do yourself a favour and listen to Maison's version, at least. It's a life-changing experience (and the fic will be even more fun)

Dean wasn't sure how much he had drunk the night before but given the fact that there was an actual Dutchman with certain artistic skills sitting in his kitchen completely naked, it must have been a lot even by his standards. Currently Dean was standing in the doorway and trying to figure out what to say, while all three Hangover movies were helpfully replaying themselves in his head. Unfortunately all of them lacked tips on how to deal with handsome dudes chilling out by waffles of unknown provenance and absolutely unashamed of being Dutch and naked. There was also the painter part somehow fitting in the picture, which was about the only fact that Dean clearly remembered, but it wasn't really helping. Then there could have been something about modelling too but it was kind of a foggy memory and honestly didn't make any sense in the current state of affairs so Dean decided to put considering that issue off for later.

Turth to be told, no matter how Dean would try to explain this to himself, the painter alone being completely, sinfully naked didn't make the slightest bit of sense either. Just as all the unexpected hardening action going on in his boxers in spite of all the confusion involved. Generally the words he was looking for to describe the situation were 'what the fuck' followed closely by 'sonofabitch'.

This morning Dean Winchester was glad that at least he remembered how he had found himself in Amsterdam of all the places. Damned Sam and his international students' exchange. 'Come and visit, Dean.' he had said. 'It will be fun, Dean.' he had said. In some leap of madness Dean had apparently forgotten there were reasons he hadn't taken part in this scam in his time and not all of them were connected to planes and flying. At least some must have predicted something along the line of finding naked Dutch painters and other joys of morning afters in his kitchen.

The most urgent question now was if he did actually fuck the painter. Or if the painter fucked him. Both possibilities were fairly terrifying but also strangely appealing in the morning light that so deliciously outlined the profile of the naked man, his muscular arms, and round perky ass seated firmly on the stool. There were also his thighs, Dean was sure one didn't get such thighs from painting alone. The messy mop of hair was clearly a manifestation of the man's artistic nature but there was no explanation to all these muscles and tan, virile skin so carelessly perfect. Unless, of course, the dude was keen on painting naked autoportraits. Then this whole setting and these bits about modelling that echoed in Dean's head could somehow actually align into one picture. But why in Dean's rented flat then? Honestly, too many mysteries at once on such a rough morning. And too much exposed skin. Beautiful, bare and oh so tempting skin.

Dean gulped, really trying to stop his eyes from wandering towards the area of the painter's body hidden decently in the shade of the counter. Then he gulped again because damn, these sharp hipbones. And then he almost choked on the next gulp as the naked Dutch painter rose his head, turned towards him and bore his intense, blue gaze into his face.

Dean was frozen to the spot as the man tilted his head a little and then actually smirked crookedly, without mischief but also still completely unashamed.  
"Hello." he said in a rough, absolutely fucked out voice.  
"Cas..." Dean suddenly remembered his name very clearly; he remembered screaming it at least few times in the darkness but the context of these screams laid forgotten in the void of his alcohol-stained memory. A drop of sweat made its way down his temple, his damned boxers feeling traitorously tight as if to mock his anxiety.

At the mention of his name the man lit up visibly and forgetting his breakfast along with his indecent demeanor, he sprung up to hug Dean tightly. Winchester was petrified as a warm and firm mass of muscles wrapped up in soft skin folded around him in surprisingly non erotic way, apparently trying to squeeze the breath out of his body.  
"Thank you." said the naked Dutch painter Cas whose intent was clearly not to fuck Dean at this specific point in time.  
Dean hesitantly embraced all that was thrown into his arms so generously and tried to angle his inappropriate enjoyment away from what seemed to be a manifesto of gratefulness and trust.  
"It's okay." he said, still confused or actually even more so now. "But what for?"  
"You saved my life." Cas didn't have any respect for Dean's chivalrous effort and pushed his hips against Dean's, brushing and teasing his erection, his face still somehow indicating full oblivion. "The riverbank, don't you remember?" he raised his big eyes to look into Dean's. "I had been so plastered I thought the sirens had been casting their spell upon me and luring me in." he said.

As these words had been spoken in that almost imperceptible accent of his, Dean had actually remembered the terror he felt when his new friend, some cousin of Sam's roommie that he had accidentaly ended up roaming around the city with, without any warning other than "Just listen to them sing, Dean" gracelessly climbed over a short ledge and fell face first into the river. Dean had been so drunk he actually threw all the reason out of a metaphorical window and jumped after him into the mid-calf shallow water. It had been a miracle that they hadn't drowned due to his heroic effort of climbing over Cas and accidentaly pushing him back under the water right after he had raised onto his knees. He silently promised himself never to get so shitfaced near any prominent water body again.

"Now I remember." he said and forgetting about his problems connected to the primal instincts that run his body, he pulled Cas even closer to himself. "Please, don't ever follow sirens again."  
"I won't, Dean." Cas sighed with content, leaning into his embrace. "I hate wearing wet clothes."  
"This I can actually see." Dean actually chuckled, relieved that there was an explanation to the nakedness after all.  
"I made some belgian waffles as a token of gratitude." Cas added, looking into his face. "Will you join me for the breakfast?"  
"Sure." Dean smiled and driven by some mysterious impulse, kissed the crown of Castiel's head as if it was the most natural thing to do.  
Cas blinked in shock and then as a flush creeped onto his cheeks, he slid out of his arms to sit back down at the counter and glanced at Dean expectantly, finally a bit of shyness appearing in his eyes.

So maybe the naked Dutch painter just wanted to share a breakfast with him without any erotic context whatsoever in mind and if you had told Dean a month before that something like this would happen, he would have laughed at you, but now he just sat down next to his friend and smiled discreetly as their fingers brushed when they tore the last waffle in half to share, already knowing it would most definitely not be their last meal together. And that next time there would be a naked American engineer to join the Dutch painter in his kitchen with an honest to God intent to fuck him.


End file.
